OFFERTORY

Denied ordination

by virtue of sex,

I find it ironic

that God sends me

a consistory of cardinals

red-robed and chattering.

Within yards of my touch

they rest on the hedge

near the window

and must understand

the wall they can’t see

would break their bones

if they flew full-force against it. One move from me

and they’d disappear

unless glass this thin works like a mirror in the day’s early light.

They see only themselves

safe on bare wood

and I watch

as they take what they need:

the oil I leave

in sunflower seeds

the color of ashes.

INTERIORS

Two dozen daffodils

held in clear class or white

     linen

are drawing the sun

and your eyes.

After so long an absence

we need something bright

to pull us together.

“I have always loved

the light in this room.”

In the basement below

cider bottled last autumn

discovers its sparkle.

WOMEN’S STUDIES

There is more at stake here

than witch bones burning.

In the shadow of epics

silence

bites the sweet songs

for old dead men

and spurns a single truth.

Muslin and milk

make a long-limbed climb

to move the margins of being

as an unnamed nudge

at Noah’s side

whispers

“You’ll need to touch

a second skin.”

And there is madness

suggesting tidy answers

pinned in dissection,

as if two halves were still a whole,

as if the space between

were not a fuse

sizzling

its long goodbye.